Defiance
by Mave Moheerus
Summary: Once a Defias bandit, twice a slave, Sarai will stop at nothing to regain her freedom. Yet when she meets Corin, a devoted paladin with a dark past, she realizes there may be more to life. Meanwhile, a dark plot unfolds in the icy heart of Northrend.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Lit by a faint green glow, Sylvanas Windrunner walked silently through the twisting halls of the Undercity. For the moment she was alone, and she savored the peace. Yet she did not slow her pace.

Something was happening. A hundred thousand plots were woven and shattered each day in the dark city of the Forsaken, but this was somehow different. She could trust nobody.

The Banshee Queen of the Forsaken never trusted anybody, actually, but this time...this time she felt as if she couldn't trust herself. As if somebody else were controlling her actions. As if every move she made, every step she took, had been meticulously planned by sinister minds.

She shook her head. The strain of ruling the undead was getting to her. Trying to control the chaos of the Undercity, and at the same time supporting the war against both the Lich King and the wretched Alliance, took every moment of every day and every night. And being undead, she didn't even have the pretense of sleeping to fall back on. She almost missed being a high elf.

_No,_ she told herself firmly. _That life is behind me. The Forsaken are my people now. That damned fool Lor'themar and his sin'dorei can fling themselves off Blackrock Spire, for all I care._

Sylvanas sighed. Her momentary peace ruined by her tumultuous thoughts, she quickened her step and entered a huge tunnel. The guards stationed at the entrance nodded to her; she didn't bother to acknowledge them.

The tunnel opened into the Royal Quarter. Sylvanas made her way to the central dais, where she two of the battlemasters engaged in a heated debate. Varimathras was notably absent.

"Dark Lady." Lyrlia Blackshield, a blood elf who oversaw deployment of Forsaken forces in the Outland, waved to get her attention. "Thank the Light you're here. Perhaps you can make this brute see reason." She ended with a sneer, directed toward the orc Kurden.

"Outland means nothing," Kurden shouted back at her. "Kil'jaeden is no more, nor is your precious Sun-King still–"

"We foreswore are allegiance to Kael'thas some time ago. Since –"

"There is nothing there for anyone! That broken world is a waste of time. We should waste no more warriors there, when the battle against your dark-skinned sisters still rages across Kalimdor."

"Sisters?" Lyrlia scoffed. "The night elves are far removed from the glorious–"

"Enough." Sylvanas spoke softly, but the argument abruptly died away. Both battlemasters turned to face her.

She looked Lyrlia up and down, taking in her perfect form, only minimally hidden by the revealing cut of her. Sylvanas had been like that, once. She had been beautiful, once.

Lyrlia smiled expectantly. Sylvanas despised her.

"Kurden is correct," she declared. Lyrlia looked as if she had been slapped. "We will waste no more time in Outland. However." She looked sharply at Kurden. "Neither will we squander our resources in Kalimdor."

Lyrlia raised an eyebrow. "What, then? Will you simply sit in your _beautiful _city and do nothing?" The way she said "beautiful" made what she really thought of the Undercity quite clear to Sylvanas.

"As your people did during the Third War?"

An angry gleam came into Lyrlia's eye. "They were your people too."

"Indeed. And so you thought I would side with you, out of kinship?" Sylvanas crossed her arms. Lyrlia started to reply, but Sylvanas cut her off. "No. Even if I was still loyal to Quel'Thalas, I would allow no sentiment to affect my decisions. No sentiment save for vengeance.

"Outland, Kalimdor, even Lordaeron, mean nothing to me." She looked north, though she could see nothing but a stone wall in that direction. "From this day forward, we will concentrate all our efforts on taking Northrend."

"A most excellent plan." The voice echoed through the chamber, accompanied by the beating of wings. Sylvanas felt a powerful presence behind her.

"Varimathras," she said reproachfully. "Where have you been?"

The dreadlord came forward to stand beside her, folding his leathery wings behind him. Lyrlia recoiled, and Kurden, though he stood his ground, set a hand on the hilt of his axe.

Sylvanas realized she'd missed his presence. She didn't rely on him – certainly not! – but she did feel safer with him by her side.

"The Apothecarium," Varimathris replied. "Meeting with Grand Apothecary Putress, who has his own designs for Northrend." Despite her trust in the demon, Sylvanas didn't like the look in his eye just then. "With his knowledge, we will be unstoppable."

Sylvanas nodded slowly, looking Lyrlia in the eye. "The Lich King shall fall."

Varimathras smiled. "Indeed." He, too, looked north. "The Forsaken's greatest hour is upon us."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter I

Sarai swung her pick, striking the hard black stone. Around her, within the sweltering heat of Blackrock Mountain, scores of other slaves were doing the same. Some were human, like her, others were dwarves, or orcs, or a member of a handful of other races. Their Dark Iron masters watched them vigilantly.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Sarai paused and drew a shaking breath. The slavemaster closest to her noticed.

"Ye get t' work, ye blasted girl!" He swung a fist, as if to strike her, and Sarai cringed. The blow never came. Instead, he touched her back softly, then slowly slid his hand lower.

Sarai shuddered, but knew better than to pull away. It wasn't as if she wasn't used to it by now. Involuntarily she glanced at a thick iron door in one wall of the chamber. On the other side were Thorl's chambers.

Thorl was captain of that particular unit of Dark Iron dwarves. When Sarai had first been brought as a slave to the bowels of Blackrock Mountain, he had taken a special interest in her. He had ordered her brought to his chambers, saying, "Such a pretty girl should not be wasted in labor."

She had dared to hope that Thorl meant to free her. Instead, she had been stripped of her clothes and left to the mercy of the cruel dwarf. She had spent many nights since in those wretched chambers, but the first time was still the worst.

"Well? Get a'movin', ye dolt!" The dwarf did punch her then, sending pain through her side. Sarai reluctantly began to work again, and he moved away.

It was not long before she felt another calloused hand touch her. She turned to find Thorl grinning at her. "Come along, girl," he said lewdly. "We've some business in my room."

Sarai tried hard not to recoil from the filthy dwarf, but in vain. He only laughed at that, then took her arm and pulled her roughly to the door. She could sense the others leering at her as she entered his chambers.

Revulsion and hatred filled Sarai, but she knew she was helpless. Thorl stroked her long, dark hair and laughed. "Many a woman would die to have a man so fine as me," he boasted.

Sarai heard a faint thump back in the other room, followed by a sharp cry. Thorl didn't seem to notice. "This could be fun, ye know, if only ye'd let it be," he was saying.

A roar rocked the chamber, and Sarai fell to her knees. Thorl paused, then shurgged. "The mountain, is all," he said. "She gets a little angry sometimes. Never erupts, though, or hasn't since awhile." He smiled down at Sarai. "Since ye're down there, I–"

The iron door exploded inward, and Thorl yelped. Screams echoed from beyond the entryway, and a burst of flame lit the dim room. Then suddenly all was quiet.

"What in the Firelands..." Thorl glared at Sarai, and kicked her with his booted foot. "What did ye do? Speak, girl!"

Shaken, Sarai could only shake her head mutely, which earned her another kick.

"Ah, Thorl." A haughty female voice reached Sarai's ears, and she looked to the openining where the door had been. There stood a beautiful blood elf woman, clothed in an elegant robe and holding an intricately carved black staff. The ruby that tipped the staff glowed with power. "At last we meet."

Sarai stared. What was a blood elf doing in Blackrock Mountain? Then she noticed the woman's eyes. Instead of the normal green, the elf's eyes blazed a fiery red.

Thorl had noticed too. He swore violently and reached for a stout hammer he had left propped against the wall. The blood elf smiled and flicked a hand his way. "Goodbye, Thorl."

The ruby on her staff flared, and a column of fire roared into life around the Dark Iron captain. He screamed, then abruptly went silent. When the smoke cleared, he had been reduced to a pile of ash.

"So fragile, for such a hardy frame," the blood elf observed. "Alas, dwarves are but a lesser race." There was a disconcerting quality to her voice, a sinister undertone that belied her graceful figure. It was as if a second, darker voice echoed her words in a whisper.

"Who...are you?" Sarai gasped.

The woman smiled sweetly, but her burning eyes bored into Sarai. "Patience, my dear. You will know soon enough." Her face became more stern, and Sarai couldn't deny that the look terrified her. "Come along, now. We must not be late."

Compelled by an emotion she didn't understand, Sarai stood and followed the woman from the room. All the slavemasters were dead, and the slaves had been shackled and bound. Four armored blood elf men kept watch over them.

Wordlessly, the woman continued out through a side tunnel. The men followed, dragging the prisoners by their chains. Nobody made any move to detain Sarai, and she considered simply fleeing, but she didn't. She had to follow them, though she couldn't remember why...

She felt dizzy, and her awareness faded. Then, what seemed a moment later, she stood on a high ledge overlooking a valley. She gasped – she was outside!

For the first time in close to a year, she stood outside of Blackrock Mountain. There wasn't much to see – just a gray, smoke-filled sky above the broken ground of the Searing Gorge – but it was exhilarating all the same.

She glanced at the blood elf woman, who stood next to her, and realized she'd been mind controlled. Resentment filled her, directed at the blood elf who had dominated her and at herself for allowing it to happen.

What had happened to the iron will she'd honed ever since she was a child? That had seen her through the death of her family and the twenty long years since? To have controlled _her_ mind, the woman must have been powerful indeed.

One of the male elves approached and nodded deferentially to the woman. "Sixteen slaves in all, plus this one here," he said. Sarai noted his eyes, too, shone crimson, and he spoke with the same ominous undertone.

Anything would be better than being a slave to the dwarves, but Sarai had a bad feeling about the unusual blood elves.

The woman looked her up and down. "Enjoy your freedom, little one," she said coldly. "It won't last." The second voice was stronger now, nearly as loud as her real voice.

Or maybe the second voice _was_ her real voice.

"Where are you taking me?" Sarai dared to ask. The way her voice shook disgusted her, but she couldn't help it.

"The Hillsbrad Foothills."

Sarai stared. "We're walking to Hillsbrad?"

"Don't be silly," the woman responded. "We shall fly. Now hush, little one."

Sarai bit her lip. Why did the woman keep calling her "little one"? She was taller than Sarai, but only by a few inches. Yet somehow, the title seemed fitting. Next to the elves – or whatever they were – she felt small, insignificant.

"We are ready," the male said.

"Let us be off, then," the woman commanded.

Then she began to change.

: : :

Corin grunted as the bear's paw raked his thigh. He fell back a pace and slashed with his longsword, forcing the bear back, then reached inside himself, drawing on his burning anger. His power manifested as a flare of light flashed from his hands, then leaped forth to strike his foe. The bear groaned, then collapsed.

Breathing heavily, Corin made sure the animal was dead before inspecting his wound. It hurt, but was only minor. He called upon his holy strength again, touching a hand to the wound.

The connection didn't form. Instead, he felt only his rage, his thirst for violence. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he began the painful walk back to Southshore. It wasn't far, but every step sent pain shooting through his thigh.

When he entered the small city, eager citizens crowded around him. Among them was the woman who had reported someone breaking into her barn earlier that day. "Did you find him?" she asked eagerly.

Corin nodded. "It was just a bear," he said, wincing.

The woman and several others gasped. "You're wounded!" she said, concerned. "Why don't you heal yourself?"

"I ca-" Corin cleared his throat. "It was...an unusually tough bear. The fight exhausted me. I need to get to the chapel."

Moving past the concerned mass, Corin made his way to the Southshore Chapel. Inside, he was greeted by Miala, one of the chapel's priests.

"You've been fighting again," she remarked, then motioned to a bench. "Sit down over there and let me take a look."

Corin did as she bade. Miala closed her eyes and clasped her hands. She mouthed the words of a prayer.

Whenever he was injured, Corin sought Miala's healing touch. She was happy to help him in return for the work he did protecting Southshore, and more importantly, she never asked him why he didn't heal his own wounds. She never asked him about his past, never asked him why he had remained in Southshore rather than taking the fight to the Plaguelands or to Outland.

He clenched a fist in anger as that thought crossed his mind. Then Miala set a hand on his thigh, and the pain lessened. Holy light washed over him, closing the wound and, for a moment, bringing peace to his thoughts. The feeling passed. His anger remained.

"Thank you," Corin said, and Miala nodded. He rose, and she put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"There is news that might interest you," she said.

He sighed inwardly. Nothing in this wretched city interested him. Aloud, he said, "Go on."

"The Forsaken of Tarren Mill are up to something," Miala explained. "They are bringing in dozens of prisoners, both living and dead. I don't know what they're doing with them, but it can't be good."

Corin considered. "Where are the prisoners coming from?"

"The living are coming mostly from the south, being escorted here by blood elves, of all things. The Southshore Militia attacked a group of them, but the blood elves wield powerful magic and our soldiers were forced to retreat." Miala thought for a moment. "The undead are coming from the Plaguelands, I think."

"I'm not sure I can help," Corin admitted. "I would be a fool to attempt to free the prisoners from Tarren Mill by myself."

"The militia will help you," Miala said. "And so will I. We needn't launch a full-scale attack on the place, though. We're just going to get to the captives, free them, and get out."

It sounded risky, but Corin secretly craved the opportunity to bring the vile Forsaken to justice. "Alright, then," he said. "I am ready."

Miala was silent, and Corin noticed how worried she looked. He realized he, too, was worried. And he couldn't help but wonder, what _were_ the Forsaken doing with all those prisoners?

He realized he probably didn't want to know the answer.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As the blood elf's body twisted and reshaped, Sarai stared in revulsion, then horror, then awe. When the transformation had completed, a dragon, a great black dragon with burning crimson eyes, stared down at her.

The dragon smiled, showing its curved fangs. "It is time, little one," the dragon hissed. "We fly."

Around her the males were changing too. Their dragon forms were smaller than that of the female. For a terrible moment, Sarai thought it was Onyxia herself who had come to free her.

_Onyxia's dead_, she told herself. _She's dead, and she isn't coming back_. Still, whoever she was, the dragon was certainly powerful, even among her own kind. Sarai was nearly overcome by the urge to kneel and praise the creature.

The dragons each took one or two of the prisoners in their claws and took flight. It was the female who carried Sarai, up into the haze that filled the sky of the Searing Gorge.

Sarai cried out as the ground fell away, so far away. The smoke stung her eyes, and miles and miles of unyielding stone stretched out below her. The dragon could simply let go of her, and she would be reduced to nothing more than a bloodstain on the rocks.

She couldn't say how long the journey took. Hours, at least. Her back and sides ached where the dragon's claws dug into her skin, and her fear of falling only became worse.

Eventually the fire and stone of the Searing Gorge gave way to the ice and snow of Dun Morogh, and later to open ocean. That scared Sarai most of all – she never had liked water.

At last the coast came into view, and soon the dragons flew over the green fields of the Hillsbrad Foothills. They set down gently upon the grass and released their prisoners. Sarai took a moment to stretch her back, and noticed she could see a city in the distance. Southshore, most likely. It was so close...

...yet so far, she was reminded when the dragon hissed behind her. The wyrms reversed their transformation, shifting back into their blood elf forms. The female smiled at her. "Wouldn't want to panic the humans, now would we?"

Sarai wasn't really listening. After so long, far too long, stuck in the vile mountain, the blue skies and green grass were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. The air carried the scent of spring flowers, and the breeze on her skin was a striking contrast to the perpetual heat of the gorge.

"Come now, don't dawdle," the blood elf – no, dragon – said. Her blood elf form seemed infinitely less beautiful, now that Sarai knew what lay underneath.

The dragons led their haggard prisoners across the fields. Sarai recalled what she knew of Lordaeron's geography, and had a bad feeling about where they were headed. Night had fallen by the time they reached their destination, and Sarai found it was as she expected. Tarren Mill loomed before them.

The town looked like any other abandoned human settlement, but shapes moved in the darkness. As the dragons led Sarai and the others into Tarren Mill, the shapes gathered around them, watching hungrily.

One of them came forward. It was a Forsaken, a human in life but now risen as an undead. It considered the dragons and their captives.

The female said something in a language Sarai didn't speak – she thought it might be Orcish. The undead nodded. He pulled bag of coins from his belt and handed it to the dragon.

"Our ways part here, little one," the dragon said to Sarai. "Good luck. And pray you never see me again." For a moment her voice became her real voice, harsh and sinister. "If you do, I'll eat you."

She and the others departed, leaving their captives at the mercy of the Forsaken.

: : :

"What have they done to this place?" Corin stared at the town of Tarren Mill. It was a shadow of what it had been. A malignant, living shadow that hungered for death, like the shades that served as spies for the armies of the Scourge.

"The Forsaken and the Scourge both are a stain upon this world," Miala said. "The sooner that stain is cleansed, the better."

"Cleansed? You are thinking in the wrong terms, Miala," Corin told her. "The stain must be _burned_. There is no redemption for the Forsaken."

Miala did not reply, but Corin could see the look on her face. It was a look he had seen all too often during his life. He hated it.

Behind Corin and the priestess, a handful of warriors stood ready. Somewhere in the night, on the other side of Tarren Mill, a second group was poised to strike.

"Remember," Miala began, "the goal here is to free the prisoners. We will go unnoticed if at all possible, and fight only when we have to fight." She started to go on, but one of the soldiers interrupted her.

"There!"

Corin looked where he was pointing. He could see movement in the center of the town – two people talking, others standing guard...and others bound in chains.

"Looks like they're bringing in new prisoners," Miala observed. "If we wait until the blood elves leave, we may be able to–"

Corin was already gone, charging into Tarren Mill with his longsword unsheathed. Voices reached him as he came closer.

"...to the Undercity," one voice said. "Sylvanas is not to know of this."

"Tomorrow night," came the reply. "Under cover of darkness, through the sewers."

"Varimathras will deal with Sylvanas," said a third voice. "You focus on getting these wretches where they need to be, and let us handle the rest."

Rage gripped Corin. Wretches? These miscreants would call the soldiers of the Alliance _wretches?_ Divine power leaped almost unbidden to his hands.

"In Lightbringer's name!" he screamed, unleashing his magic. A burst of light enveloped one of the guards, revealing it – and all the others – to be undead.

The guard cried out, and Corin closed in, finishing it with a stroke of his sword.

Chaos erupted around him. Several of the other guards charged Corin, but in the same moment the captives made a break for freedom.

"Secure the prisoners!" one of the undead shouted. "Subdue them if you have to, but no prisoner escapes!"

"By the memory of Terenas!" Ten voices called out together, and ten soldiers stormed into Tarren Mill. Behind Corin, Miala and her soldiers were joining the fray as well.

Something glanced off the back of Corin's steel choker. He spun and just barely managed to parry his assailant's second blow. The undead danced to the side and slashed with his sword. Instead of trying to block it, Corin rushed forward, coming inside the undead's reach and bowling him over. Corin slashed down, splitting his foe's skull.

The metallic clash of steel on steel and the sickening thud of steel on flesh filled the air around him. Corin let his rage fuel him, and cut down yet another Forsaken from behind before it ever knew he was there.

He swung again at another form before him, but realized just in time that it was a human who stood before him. She was not chained, but neither was she armed; she must have been one of the prisoners.

Corin grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from the battle. She cried out in surprise but seemed to shocked to resist, and he led her to the outskirts of Tarren Mill. "Wait here," he said. "I'll get the others."

She stared at him blankly, then shook her head. "No," she said. "We have to get out of here. _Now_."

"I'll be fine," he started to say, but he was interrupted by a sound like thunder. The sky above seemed to rupture, and a burning green meteor plummeted down into the center of the town. Screams echoed through the night, and from the remains of a meteor rose an immense flaming demon.

The infernal charged the Alliance forces, and just like that the tide of the battle turned against them.

"I will not desert my comrades," Corin said firmly. "Even if the fight is hopeless, I will die beside them."

The woman said nothing, just stared back at the town with fear in her eyes. Corin looked at her, and in his mind's eye he saw another woman, a woman dead years ago. His anger faded.

"No," he said softly. "We must leave this place. Follow me."

She looked at him and seemed to actually see him for the first time. "My name is Sarai," she said.

"Corin. Now hurry."

And with that, they stole away into the night.


End file.
